Damaged
I dont think this is so much a poem as me just smashing words together to cope. im just trying to make sense of things. this is years and years of pieces of myself and of Crowley spilled over the screen. i might have taken it too far i mightve choked on the things i wanted to say but well it's done now so yeah. please proceed with caution this poem deals with self loathing and the such
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How can you see beauty
In a broken thing like me?
For I am tainted, stained by sin
How can you love a crippled soul
That’s marked by scars too deep to hide?
Scorched and carved up and then spit out
By the place I once called my own
Forced to grow fangs and claws
To shield myself from the torment of my past
But now, I brush my hands against yours
And I leave a trail of scarlet upon your flesh
I've become the beast I feared
Struggling to recognize the reflection in the mirror
As it distorts
Into a monstrous mask
Yet you hold me with gentle hands
As spiders spill from my eye sockets
Falling on the ground that grows webs in their wake
Securing me in place
To ensure that I cannot escape
Myself
Yet you remain steadfast by my side
As my sharp branches that I call limbs
Ensnare your figure and pierce your sacred skin
I see the pain etched upon your face
And I curse myself for it
For this is how I love—
With claws that cut and fangs that maul
And no one should endure the love I give
For is it love, if it destroys
You?
Yet still, you stay,
A martyr, a sacrifice,
A holy fool
You see value where there is none
I am but a stain upon your purity
A blemish on your perfection
A poison coursing through your veins
A parasite feeding on your kindness
Venom oozes out of my wounds
Burying you alongside the echo of my being
I am a plague, spreading with every breath I take
The ruptured creature within
Will not stop until you collapse into my useless arms
Until we become one
And I would rue the day I first drew breath
The day She sculpted me out of fire
And left me there to burn
The day she imprisoned me in this vessel
Cursed me to crawl on broken legs
She never loved me—
How could She love a creation designed to falter?
Yet you do
Despite my flaws?
So teach me, angel, if you dare
Show me that I’m not beyond repair
For I’m still damaged, in need of mending
How can I not be? Look at me
How can you love this misshapen thing I am
With jagged edges, dented thorns?
My mouth so rough, my wings all faulty
My eyes unable to perceive the light
My body, nothing but shards of broken glass
And my heart, a barren wasteland
My tongue slit, but what’s one more tear,
On my already fractured frame?
How can you love me
When I have forgotten
How to love myself?
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ive never been more scared to post something. im gonna disappear from the face of the earth for a bit now
read it also on ao3:
hey my absolute favourite people of this site i hope you dont mind @crowleys-hips @bearthewhipsandscornsoftime @fearandhatred @ghostsparrow @eybefioro @seven-stars-in-his-palm @ficreader500 @crowleys-curl @crowleybrekkers @notagoodlad @lickthecowhappy @di-42 @goodoldfashionednightingale @spookyllamatree @wanderer-main @ineffabildaddy
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The Dole of a Death of Self
They press you by the shoulders,
Back flush against a tilted chair,
And how electricity howls in pain
Whistling through the octaves in
Screams sung by vocal chords
Strung across an exposed throat,
Laid bare, nailed fingers plucking
The strings like a laughing violinist.
Tomorrow you shape a century,
And today your hands tremble,
Knees kissing soiled floor tiles,
Their hands knotted in your
Hair, roughly– you spit up rose,
Rubied petals spraying across
Their boots, and your nose
Pours with dirtied water,
Bloodied– take a deep breath
And they shove you under again;
Concrete blocks press into your back and you
Read verse with tired eyes, tired minds, poetry
Etching their way into your soul, you rather think
You want to scratch the words into your arms,
To keep them forever, yours. You have nothing.
You have nothing and the wind croons
Over bridges, playing with your hair,
Gentle, kind in a way you do not know.
They harness you to them, buckling holsters
And you let them mold your face into smiles
Tugging your mouth upwards with calloused
Hands, and they curl their hands, digging into
Your face, warning signs at the end of times.
Stay loyal like a panting hound,
Until the chains rust, and you
Sob into thin pillows, curled up
On the hard floor of your apartment–
Cry! Cry for that which you’ve lost,
Cry for the robbery of a heart:
The dole of a death of self.
by Aisha for @catws-anniversary March 26th, loose interpretation of "PTSD"
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i glance in the pool of algae,
and i reflect back to me
an image like narcissus, but
who i see is murky green
with a darkness underneath
eyes— a violent sea—
not due to the sprigs and leaves
or all that dirt and all the bees
that have drowned in it like me—
in another life, another time—
but only because who i see
is not who i know myself to be,
suddenly awash with a horrid wish
to be nobody.
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Who would you be if
You weren't struggling to survive?
What could you accomplish past
The fear of financial collapse?
What would a day look like
Without a time clock, slow grind—
Would you find your worth
If you weren't bought and sold?
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Indiscretion
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I don't believe I was created
To be a bad person.
My soul was forced into this reality,
Burnt by what they called love,
Ripped apart by what you referred to
As family.
To manage the blaze,
I found a flower within the smoke.
A brief reprieve from a world on fire.
You'll have to excuse my sickness;
The way I cough up blood beside you.
To destroy another in the name of
Your own happiness?
I curl beside the flower,
My breathing labored.
It shivers in the destruction.
I don't believe I was created to be
A bad person.
But I don't know if a good person
Would long for the flower,
Rather than fall to the flames.
x
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